


Uncanny Valley

by Solaire041



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solaire041/pseuds/Solaire041
Summary: In the blighted neighborhoods of New York Zero, among the trapped and panicked survivors left behind, Doctor Angela Ziegler meets but one of countless others desperately seeking medical attention for their loved ones.Or, in other words, appearances are always deceiving, and some more than others. One-shot.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	Uncanny Valley

There was little distinctive about him, in the beginning. Among the frenzied, panic-ridden crowds of patients seeking medical treatment from the famed Doctor Angela Ziegler, he was but one of many seeking help, pleading for anything and everything she could give.

It was chaos in those early days. She’d planned as much as she could on the abrupt and extremely unauthorized flight to the States, prepared as best she could for the horrors that already were being advertised across the globe as the worst terrorist attack in history—but there was simply no way that she could have predicted the sheer scale of the damage.

The latest census data estimated that over two million people lived or worked in Manhattan. Over two million people, trapped on less than 23 square miles of land and cut off from the mainland. Utilities shut down, food and water stores dwindling, and medical supplies at pathetic lows…

It was an utter nightmare, a living hell on earth—even without accounting for the strange virus running rampant across the island, turning men into shambling zombies and far, far worse. There were simply too many people in the hastily-constructed refugee camp stationed on one of Manhattan’s docks. Too many mouths to feed, wounds to dress, and bodies to shelter.

A thousand and one fires for the famous Mercy and her beleaguered team of assistants to put out, when they couldn’t so much as get a bucket pass the military’s blockade.

(And this wasn’t even including the raging infernos that were the raids conducted in the dead of night, black-armored men and HAZMAT teams taking away dozens of survivors at a time and returning only with “classified information” and “need to know, ma’am, and you don’t need to know.”)

Amidst such anarchy, Mr. Richard Hawkins, an overweight, balding man in his thirties, and his comatose sister were just another pairs of faces in the crowd. What did her overworked doctors and exhausted nurses care for his backstory, for his identity? It was just one more patient in dire need of IVs, of clean linens and beds, of nutrients and medical scans and a hundred other things they could barely supply.

Such was life in New York Zero, Angela thought sadly. And yet despite everything—Commander Morrison’s frantic berating of her “reckless disregard for personal safety”, the US government’s apoplectic rants about her “unauthorized and uninvited Overwatch presence in American soil,” the very real danger of being overwhelmed by the Infected at any moment—she couldn’t bear to leave. Who else could help these poor souls?

(Not that she was doing much helping, as things were.)

She sighed, fighting the urge to yawn as she flipped through urgent requests for supplies with one hand while skimming her current patient’s files with the other.

Dana Hawkins, Angela read off sadly. Dehydration, broken bones, malnutrition…the list of ailments affecting the poor girl went on and on, and with what supplies she had, Angela couldn’t do much more than pray for a miracle.

“Doc.”

The raspy, cold tone cut through the silence of the medical tent, and Angela startled with a jolt, head shooting up to the tent's mouth.

“Mr. Hawkins!” Angela greeted as soon as her heart settled into a more comfortable rhythm. “Do you require medical attention?” She took in his unmistakable aura of utter exhaustion, and gave a weak sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I do not have much time, but—”

“You need to leave, doc.”

Angela gaped at the interruption. “…I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Hawkins stepped fully into the tent then, the harsh scowl clashing horribly with his rotund features. “There’s no time, doc. You have to get your things, take Dana, and leave.”

She spluttered for several seconds before resolve stiffened her spine. “I—I’m afraid I really don’t understand. Is something—”

“There’s a pack of about two or three dozen hunters heading here. I’ll try to hold them off best I can, but some will probably make it past me.” Mr. Hawkins grimaced, then glared at her, as if personally offended that she hadn’t jumped at the excuse to flee. “Either way, doc, this entire camp is about to get flattened. I suggest you leave. Now.”

“I-if you know of a threat to this camp, Mr. Hawkins, I suggest you contact the military liaison about—” She faltered and trailed off, watching helplessly as the man broke out into a cold laugh as pleasant as shattering glass.

“What, Blackwatch? You really think they’ll lift a finger to help you?” Mr. Hawkins snorted. “Only reason they bother to keep this camp at all is because the Infected form nice, neat firing lines when they try to breach the camp perimeter.” He glanced back at the entrance to the test, his gaze fixed on some distant point far off in the horizon before refocusing on her. “That won’t be happening this time, doc. The hunters will be here soon. Take Dana and leave.”

“Blackwatch? _Blackwatch_ is here?”

Mr. Hawkins—who she was now quickly realizing was not at all the mild-mannered man she’d thought, and probably never had been—gave her a curious look. “Yeah? Who else did you think was handling this mess?”

Angela sat down, too preoccupied to do much more than perform a passable imitation of a goldfish. “Blackwatch,” she whispered softly to herself after a few moments.

 _Oh Gabe…what are you doing here? What have you_ done _?_

She glanced again at his deathly-pale pallor and readied…to do what, exactly? Notify Overwatch, who’d been given a strict mandate by the US government not to interfere? The military, who’d sought to make her work here as difficult as possible from the day she stepped off her plane?

The United Nations, who couldn’t give less of a damn about matters of right and wrong when the concerned party was on its Security Council?

Shouts from the tent’s entrance shook the doctor from her racing thoughts, and she strained her ears to hear…voices. Hard voices, slightly muffled from gas masks, and also the soft clatter of boots and weapons.

“—over here! This way!”

“Outta the way! Get clear, **now**!”

Military voices. _Blackwatch_ voices.

Angela stiffened, then flickered her eyes back to Mr. Hawkins’ amused face. He merely sneered.

“Yeah. And then there’s that to deal with, too.”

“Wh-who are you? Who is this girl to you?” She stood again, her Caduceus blaster raised with shaking arms and bared teeth. “I-I will warn you, I am sworn to defend my patients. I will not let you harm her.”

The faintest of emotions flickered in the man’s dead eyes—indiscernible and fleeting, yet enough to soften his harsh visage by the slightest of fractions. “That’s why I brought her to you, Doc. And believe me,” he grunted. “I’m the last person that would want that.” His face hardened once more, even as his body began to ripple and shift before her astonished eyes.

She recognized him then, of course. How could she not?

He abandoned his disguise at last, flesh dissolving and unweaving into countless threads, reweaving into the gaunt, merciless form of Alex Mercer, Monster of Manhattan and Public Enemy Number One. He towered above her, electric blue eyes glittering with dark amusement as he held her gaze. With one arm brandishing a massive blade and the other wielding wicked talons, he looked every inch the wanted terrorist and abomination he was.

“Hey Doc. Long time no see.”

She could do nothing but stare in horror.

“…A-Alex? W-what t-they said, then—”

A mirthless laugh. “You should know better than to believe everything they say, _Angie_ .”

Despite herself, despite _everything_ , the old nickname was still enough to make her bristle. “How many times have I told y—no, no I won’t be distracted by your juvenile games! Why are you here? What do you want with me?”

He made no move towards her, only watching with those cold blue eyes of his. He nodded once, flicking his head back at her patient.

“Keep her safe, Doc. Keep her well.”

A pause, a softer murmur. “Like you always have.” His voice trailed off, eyes unfocused and distant.

And then the moment was gone. His face hardened, his body blurred into movement. Outside, the chirps of radios and thuds of stomping boots descended into gurgling screams and shrieks of panic, which stilled back to an ominous silence far too quickly for her liking.

Several moments passed until Angela found the strength to move again, and she gingerly made her way outside the tent. She saw a bloodbath—bodies torn almost in two, limbs scattered across the ground, and pools of dark crimson.

“Mein Gott…” she whispered. “What happened to you, Alex? What did you do to yourself?”

Angela glanced down, saw a single discarded radio far away during the fight, and gently held it up. She brought up her Overwatch tacpad (“temporarily requisitioned,” as it were) and swiftly interfaced with the battered tech, fighting desperately to ignore how it was covered in splatters of crimson mud and all but bent in half.

The frenzied, panicked communications she overheard did not help her nerves.

_“—northern quadrant, on the double! Shit shit shit, he drew them here! Get—”_

_“—inforcements, now! We can’t—”_

_“—trike teams inbound to—"_

_“—ZEUS is here! ZEUS is—gaaCK!”_

She quickly shut off the link, shuddered as she shot a look back at the shadowed confines of the medical tent.

It was far, far too dark in there…and yet, she rolled her sleeves up and went back anyways.

Her patients still needed her.

###### 

“—and I expect _daily_ updates, Dr. Ziegler, on both your camp’s wellbeing and your own. If there’s any sign of trouble—”

Angela fought the urge to yawn, instead attempting to focus on the holographic image of Strike Commander Morrison, who looked as if he’d aged a decade since she last saw him. An uncharitable description, perhaps, but one which, in fairness, was a good way of describing the grilling the US government (and the UN by extension) was giving him.

Even so, neither of them could keep the satisfied smiles from their faces.

“…You did good work, Doctor. You…you were right.” Morrison wiped his face with a hand, dark bags under his eyes reflected in her own.

“Perhaps. But perhaps I could have given you a bit more warning first.”

The Strike Commander waved her apology off, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe. But sometimes…sometimes I wonder. Wonder if maybe I shouldn’t take a leaf from your book, tell all the UN to go off themselves, and just go out and do…do good.”

Angela sighed heavily. “Things would be easier, certainly. Accountability is good, but…”

“…not if they keep trying to strangle us and everything we’ve ever done with it.”

The words made her blink owlishly. “Commander…”

The man froze, glancing back up at her eyes as if having forgotten she was there. He gave a painfully forced chuckle. “Just thinking to myself, Dr. Ziegler. Ignore me.” He straightened, hands folding behind his back. “In any case, keep yourself safe, Doctor. Forward me any requests for supplies you have, and I’ll…I’ll see what I can do.”

“Of course, Jack. Commander.” She paused. “And…what of…”

Even on the small, flickering hologram, Angela could make out the scowl on the Commander’s face.

“Gabe claims he knows nothing about it, says your contact’s full of shit.” He paused. “Angela. It goes without saying that…just be careful. If he’s not…”

She nodded. Neither of them dared speak the thought aloud.

“Understood, Commander.”

“Morrison out.”

She blinked once, twice. She’d known her trip would have consequences—all but guaranteed, when one flaunted the US President’s direct orders of non-interference. If even Jack had looked that ragged, however…and now these rumors of Blackwatch going rogue?

She shook her head, leaned it back to rest against the cold metal of her locker. Had Overwatch really fallen so far, that petty politicians would stop them from saving lives? That childish displays of national strength would deafen their conscience?

That their own agents would cause harm in such an unthinkable manner?

“Doc.”

Mercer.

She bolted upright, hands grasping for—for anything, really, and not really for any purpose rational thought could explain. She blinked when she saw what she’d grabbed: a clipboard, some patient notes and a pen still attached.

Main battle tanks hadn’t fared any better.

“A-Alex.”

He looked… _awful_. He’d been gaunt and perhaps somewhat sickly before, but now? Now he resembled more an emaciated mannequin than anything human. What pallor he had to his face, he’d lost, replaced by corpse-like grey and leaving his twin blue orbs as the only spot of color on his visage. The viral threads that made up his body looked no better, frayed and stretched thin, as if there weren’t enough of them to fill out a human outline and they’d simply given up halfway.

The viral predator coughed politely, wearily, reminding Angela to trade her horrified examination for a sheepish glance. He glanced at the tacpad in bemusement and arched a single eyebrow, barely visible from beneath the confines of his hood.

“What…what happened?”

Alex sneered. “I got in an argument with a nuke. I won.”

She tried to process that while he swept past her, glancing around the room.

“Dana. Where?” he grunted.

“R-right.”

He followed her silently, through hastily-erected privacy curtains and makeshift hospital beds. The Infection was thankfully dwindling, these days, which meant her attention could focus less on triage and quarantine and more on actual treatment and patient care—especially now that Overwatch had managed to send her supplies and staff.

Dana Hawkins—or rather, Dana Mercer—lay as motionless as ever, her limp body accented by the steady beeping of the heartbeat monitor.

“Physically, she’s…as recovered as could be expected, frankly. But…”

“The coma. I know.”

The words seethed with rage, disappointment, grief. She flinched, only to be surprised by the man’s almost…apologetic(?) glance.

He continued to inspect her for a few more moments, then shook his head and made to leave.

"…Thanks, Doc.”

“W-wait!”

Alex stopped.

“We will be moving facilities soon. To an actual hospital, on the mainland. W-would you like the location?”

An oppressive silence lingered, and Mercer looked for all the world a statue frozen in the doorframe. Blank eyes flickered at her patient, and lips thinned at what they found.

“…No. No, she’s…better off with you.”

He left without another word, leaving her alone in the room.

“…What happened to you, Alex?” Angela asked lamely, long after he was gone.

Only the droning hum of hospital equipment answered her.

**Author's Note:**

> Muses are strange and deceitful things. I went to write a story on Fire Emblem and instead revived the half-finished draft of this bastardized crossover.
> 
> Expect this to be a one-shot. I’m frankly surprised I even finished this much.
> 
> If it’s not already made clear, I picture Angela and Alex having been colleagues before the Outbreak. I can’t imagine them as anything other than bitter enemies, both professionally and ideologically, but who knows? Perhaps Mercer the virus will make friends where Mercer the man did not.
> 
> Right, guys? Guys…?
> 
> As always, check out Hyliian and Laluzi for more artful depictions of everyone’s favorite walking, talking WMD, and take a peek at _steadfast tin soldier_ , by twigcollins, for the best damn Overwatch fic I’ve ever seen. Seriously.


End file.
